


liebling

by halfdeadrat



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Torture, Gen, Gender Neutral, German, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Knives, Mild Stockholm Syndrome, No Sex, No Smut, One Shot, Other, Self-Indulgent, This is Bad, Torture, Violence, but I already made it, so there's no turning back now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 01:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdeadrat/pseuds/halfdeadrat
Summary: You are being tortured in some guy's basement. Maybe it'd be easier to give up on life and get killed quickly? Key words: fear of death, fear of life, Strade, blood, German pet names, combat boots. No sexual content.





	liebling

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic i've written in 8 years so i'm sorry in advance!

Another day waking up on the basement floor, tied up. Whenever he's done with you for the day, you struggle to find a way to lay down comfortably, or even in a way that doesn't hurt. If you did though, falling asleep would still be difficult. The memories you've already gathered and stress about what's to come flood your mind.  
The floor is dirty; there's still some dried blood on it. Pink, aching stripes circle your wrists under the rope.  
You gasp as you hear footsteps. The stitched up wounds on your thighs send a shiver of sharp pain through your body. You become more conscious and aware of your surroundings. The steps stop and the door is opened. Your captor looks cheerful as ever.

 

"How are we feeling today?"  
Gazing at your bruised up knee, not to catch a glimpse of his eyes, you try to figure out if not answering him will make any difference. It doesn't seem to.

 

"Not too talkative right now, huh? That's okay! We have plenty of time to hear your voice".

 

Your stomach feels tense in fear, but it might as well be hunger. Doesn't he have other things to do during the day today? Is this the weekend already? By now, you're not sure which day you got here on.

 

Standing in front of you while you're on the ground, he looks bigger than he is, which makes it even worse for you. He squats down and roughly touches some of your larger wounds with his hands. "Are you healing that much already? You're really a tough one!"  
His grin seems to get even more sinister for a second, and then he says "So let's get to work!"

 

After getting up, he turns around, looking for something in one of the cupboards. What'll the weapon be?  
You notice that the back of his neck is sweaty, but barely have the time to think about anything, because he quickly comes back with a hand saw.  
"Any thoughts?". All you're thinking about is kicking him in the head, but you're not foolish enough to express that wish.  
"Wha- what do you need that for?". It's the first time you're spoken that day, so your voice sound a bit raspy.  
There's no verbal answer, but he swings the saw. in your direction. You flinch, even though you know he's standing too far to reach you. There's laughter. 

 

He comes closer, and rests the saw on your shin, close to the bone, and presses it lightly. You already feel the teeth of the saw piercing into your flesh, and need to bite your lip not to scream at the abrupt pain.  
He seems to be watching your face closely, because he notices that.  
"If you're too silent, I will push down harder. You don't want that, do you?"  
"Don't!"  
"No?" His eyes seem to light up. "Why not?"  
Barely finishing his question, he presses it further, and moves it forward, so you feel the metal graze your bone and groan in pain.  
To distract yourself, you attempt to push your fingernails in your leg. Not only does it cause your wrist to twist due to the rope still wrapped around it, but when he notices it, he smacks your hand to the side causing extra distress.  
When it's done, you're almost thankful he didn't try to cut your leg off. What a vile joke.

 

Why did this happen to you, of all people? You thought your self-inflicted scars that stuck around from your early teens held enough suffering for life. That it got better forever. Then, everything you've had to deal with in the past was overshadowed by... this. Turns out that other problems were the universe's way of training you for the deeper, more painful, bloodier scars. Will you be alive by the time the wounds even heal? This is hopeless.

 

As you're chewing on your second energy bar, you're almost able to forget about the fresh swollen wound, and all the other non-fresh wounds you have. You already know the food isn't poisoned, and as much as you want to refuse anything this fucking guy gives you, the hunger was getting unbearable.  
Watching you eat doesn't seem to be interesting to him, leaving you alone for a moment, with your hands untied. But you know it's not worth it to try anything.  
"You know what, buddy, I normally feel more bonded with people by this time." It's like he spent years crafting this exact facial expression to mock you this very second. And you're his buddy, apparently. Just like you're his liebling, his freund, his hase. Isn't that reizend. You once thought German was quite a nice language, and that, along with life itself, is very much ruined now.  
"Not everyone can click right away!" 

 

You take another bite, accidentally making eye contact.  
"But clicking with me is in your best interest. Or not, depends how much fun you want me to have."  
Another bite.  
"Am I being clear?" He is not being clear, and there's no more bites to take.  
He leaps towards you in a weird, sudden burst of energy.  
"Am I being clear?" Your heart beat goes wild, but fear has become such a constans that you don't notice it at all.  
"Yes, Strade, you're being clear", you say. Yes, you are aware that your life is in serious danger, and you are aware this fucker probably has done this a million times before (or he acts like he has). Where are are the people who care about you, though?  
And where are the police? Tons of people must have seen you leave the bar with him right before you went missing. This is the part in the movie where the white guy protagonist with 5 o'clock shadow shows up to rescue the poor crying victim. You. Or, what you've become in the last few days. Come on, white guy protagonist. I won't last much longer. Is he waiting for the moment where you're about to die to rescue you? Or are there no protagonists available at this time, please try getting murdered again later? 

 

"Wunderbar. I'm glad you understand", he says, brushing your hair off your face. You've always hated when people do that. 

\------------------

You press your face to the floor, hoping it'll silence your crying just a little. There's no point in fighting back, you're tied up especially tightly. Still, you can't help but move. You feel one of his knees pressing into your back, trying to stabilize you. Heavy. Almost crushing. With the added force of a knife carefully slicing the back of your neck and shoulder blades time after time, you feel like you are about to snap in half. Not even in half, into four parts at least.  
"Stop moving! I'm trying to get a good angle." His voice is lowered, and you barely understand anything. You hear blood pumping in your head and cry out, as if in response, and try to restrict your spastic shivering even more than him and the rope can.  
Now you're positive he's laying down too, resting his elbow on your lower back. You can't see anything, but it sounds like he's pressing some buttons. Is he filming? Taking pictures (it lasts longer)?

 

In a wave of rage mixed with emotional exhaustion, you try to swing with your tied together wrists and knock the device out of his hand. Brave move.  
Silence follows, like between lightning and thunder. He hits you on the back of your head, attempting to knock you unconscious. It blurs your senses, but you're not completely out yet. You feel his put his boot on the back of your head. Before you can even take a breath, the shapes on your eyelids turn to solid black.

 

Next thing you know, you're running away from somewhere straight into a dark alley. You get punched by something invisible, and get some of your teeth knocked out. You spit out blood and pass out. While it's all happening, you don't realize that it's a dream.

 

And, predictably, you wake up many hours later. There's no one in the basement with you. It's exceptionally dark, so you wrongly assume it's night. You think your nose must be broken, but you can't even examine it with tied up hands and no mirrors. Dried blood is almost clogging your nostrils and you have trouble breathing. It's very painful to even just lay there - you can't think of any part of your body that isn't aching. To give your body more of a break, you decide to ignore your thirst and hunger, and keep trying to sleep more. A few entranced moment later, you hear the door open with a creak. Lights turn on.  
"You look like a mess, liebling!" A familliar voice says, happily. He said it before even looking at you, but he knows he's right. How else would you look after all of this?  
You don't even want to try to respond with real words, grunting instead. Your eyes are closed, you don't want to look at him. You don't want to ask for it yourself, but you're waiting for him to offer you food and a drink.  
Instead, he exclaims: "I've been very rough with you, I know"  
You give him a semi-curious, cautious look.  
"But it's a part of this! We have to make some sacrifices for the sake of fun and pleasure. Right?" This is mockery. Sounds worryingly like he's trying to be honest, and it's horrifying to you that this is something he may wholeheartedly believe. Do messed up people have no morals, or twisted morals?  
By the way, why can't you sacrifice HIM for YOUR fun? Privileged fucker.

 

He takes a beer out of the refrigerator, cracks it open, and starts to sip on it. "You don't have to just let me talk to myself, you know. If I want to hurt you, and I do, I'll do it no matter what you say".  
You hesitate. He wants you to provoke him. Don't want to give him the satisfaction, but still you say: "My face hurts when I move it". You sound weak, pathetic. He feeds off of it, you swear his cheeks weren't as red seconds before.  
"I wonder what happened to it", he laughs,  
"Maybe I'll fix you up a little later. Unless you do something that will make you not deserve it."

 

You stay silent as he finishes his drink and then reaches for a second one. He steps on the empty can after just throwing it on the floor. It makes an ungodly sound. The little thing that is used to open cans falls off. For the life of you, you can't remember what the fuck it's called.

 

In a spurt of bravery, you politely ask him if you can have a beer too. It's better than nothing. Actually, you'd much prefer to chug a full bottle of vodka and pass out for a day, but at this point, you'll take what you can get. He seems excited by this.  
"Just like at the bar, huh? Full circle, liebling."  
It echoes in your mind for a few seconds. Full circle, liebling.  
He does not untie you, which makes it ever so slightly different from the way it was at the bar. For whatever reason, you feel more embarrassed by him pouring a beer down your throat, than by the other, more painful things he has done to you. Is he purposefully pouring it so quickly? Not choking is very difficult in that moment. Choking to death with beer in a killer's basement, what a funny way to die that would be.  
You hate how close to you he's standing. You wish you were the one wearing heavy boots so you could kick him away from you forever. Catching yourself wondering what he did with your shoes, and some of your other clothes, you try to push away such trivial thoughts. What difference does it make now? It doesn't seem like you'll be getting them back.  
When you finish your beer, he pats you on the head. You shudder.

 

As promised, you get "fixed up a little". All that means is your face is now clean and your wounds are disinfected. You still feel generally bad, though you're less disgusted by your own state.  
"Okay liebling, goodnight! Rest. For now." Fake-sounding empathetic voice.  
"Thank you. Goodnight." 

\--------------------

As the rope that was trapping your wrists seconds ago falls to the ground, cut off, Strade orders you to get up and turn around. And you do just that, feverishly trying to keep your underwear from sliding down. The last thing you want is this creep looking at your ass.  
Right away, he kicks you in the back of your leg, casing you to fall to your knees. What are his boots made of, fucking bricks?  
"I said stand up, remember?" This man, with his German accent, powertools, and slasher smile, was straight up like a person you'd run away from in a nightmare, or in a horror movie. Was that what was going on here? It couldn't have been it, right? As much as you would prefer this to actually be an alcohol induced coma-fever-dream, that doesn't seem to be the case. It's all painfully real.

 

After getting up once more, you feel a hand feel up your spine. It's cold.  
A few moments pass of him storming though his cabinets. Next thing you feel is a sharp, needle-like object against your back. And then, lightly hit by something, presumably a hammer, it pierces into your flesh.  
"Fuck!", you yell, caught off guard by the pain. He's being silent.

 

Screaming louder every nail, you're close to passing out. The only thing to cling onto in that situation is the rhythm of your own breathing. In. Blood dripping down your back. Out. Nail getting taken out. In. He touches your back. Out. Just disconnect yourself from anything that's happening, that's your best shot.  
But something about blood seems to make him excited. Vampire? Can't be.  
You whimper, as you barely feel a tounge licking one of the wounds. He must know how invasive and degrading he's being, and enjoy it greatly. Fuck. With one of his hands, he's smearing more blood all over your skin. Though you're not facing him, you keep your eyes closed, focusing on the shapes you can see when you shut them very hard. A warm tear makes a wet line on your face as it drips down. Kind of like a snail. 

 

"Alright!" He abruptly pulls you by the shoulder and turns you around. He frowns. "Distracted, huh?" The tone of his voice is colder than usual. In fear of punishment, you apologize.  
Staring for a moment, still not looking pleased, he reaches for the rope and ties your wrists together again.  
"You're tired. That's not fun." It sounds hesitant, as if he didn't mean to say it, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "I'll be right back."  
You want to move, but something's keeping your body completely still. By the time you manage to snap out of some kind of shock, he's back.

 

Next thing you know, he's washing the blood (and probably some of his own saliva. gross) off of your bruised, nailed body. Keeping in mind what he said, you try to make your movements and pained moans energetic. It doesn't work well, it comes off, even to you, as unnatural. Uncalled for. You're way off script. Definitely not a perfect victim.  
"Done." He states, making sure to 'accidentally' kick your foot while stepping away.  
"Thank you." You didn't think about it before you said it, so it sounds genuine. Like yourself. Your instinct in this situation was to thank this man, for some reason. Interesting.  
"You're so very welcome!" There's that maniac voice again.  
And then he leaves you alone for some time, despite you having a bit more energy from the aftercare. What a shame.  
Better rest more, what else is there to do. You definitely can't sleep laying on your swollen, open-wounded back now. Especially not on this dirty ass floor with dozens of infections just waiting to happen, probably. As you drift away sleeping, you hear soft footsteps, but can't tell if they're real or not.

 

You wake up merely a couple hours later (of course, laying on your back) to a heavy boot slowly pressing down on your chest.  
"Gathering energy, I see? Good!", he says with excitement. "It's getting late, we're all tired."  
The bags under his eyes and your eyes confirm what he just said. Tired and in pain for you, tired yet excited to inflict pain for him! Fun.  
When he was leaving earlier, his shirt was still clean, but now it had a red stain. Your eyes darted away from it so he didn't catch you staring. You quickly focus on the shining metal of the blade that he's playing with. "So-", began Strade, scratching his face with his other hand, "where were we?"  
You consider possible answers for a second and say "You know where you were." The tone was almost accusatory, so you felt like you stepped on thin ice. Luckily, it didn't break just yet.  
He replied "Okay then." Uncomfortable silence followed. He moved even closer to you with an unreadable expression on his face.  
You stay still, not looking away, and feel the knife pushing your chin slightly up. He roughly brushes through your greasy hair with his fingers and pushes it over to one side, as you try your best to hide how scared you are.  
Seconds are like hours. He's not rushing anything he's planning to do. Do people like that have plans? Or does he let some kind of dark instinct dictate all his actions? You think, "just do what you have to do, and leave me alone again".  
Poking your lip with the knife, he causes some blood to leak. "How cute!" Then a big, sinister smile.  
What an absolute joke this was.  
You have never looked less conventionally cute, and you don't remember being that tense in your entire life.  
And then, stepping on your leg with one foot, he begins to kick you with the other. His face lights up progressively as the pain grows stronger.  
It might be your imagination and exhaustion coming into play, but you swear the lamps flicker every few kicks. You pass out after a few minutes, hoping you wake up out of this filthy basement or not at all. 

\--------------------

He has officially decided to get rid of you. Or that's what you've gathered. You thought he was agressive before, but it was nothing compared to what he's turned into since you've been deemed boring. It brought even more panic upon you than the first days here.  
Every time he crossed a new line, and it seemed to be the last one before death, a new one appeared, filling you with dread. What was even stopping him from just killing you at any given moment? It's not like there was any hope for survival left in you. Murderer letting go someone they've already tortured? Please. Maybe you wouldn't be naive enough to believe this scenario if it wasn't your only hope. If you were stuck between begging for death and being a naive little victim, you were going to cling onto the latter. Cling onto it with weak, swollen, cut up, but not quite cold and dead yet, hands - until someone rips it out of them. You're still a tough one after all, aren't you? Naive and tough?

 

With a sharp hunting knife, the one that you know too well by now, pressing lightly against the skin below your chin, you feel your heart racing. There are some new slices around your collarbones and shoulders, similar to those on the back of your head. If you live until two weeks from now, you'll turn into one giant sentient scar. None of them are too deep though. Deep wounds are more exhausting, but at least they are something you can reasonably focus on - having some extra scratches was just plain annoying. You were suspicious it was an omen of death, because it was regular old cutting. Nothing a killer could be really satisfied by. That's for sure something to watch out for, a storm is coming for sure.  
Still, the knife against your skin. The big slice you're expecting doesn't come. Instead, there comes laughter, along with a waterfall of spit hitting your face. 

 

There are knives scattered all over the floor. He had been angrily looking for a specific one from the bottom of his knife drawer. They're not close enough for you to be able to reach them. Some of them look new, unused. _You briefly think about using them. _  
Others look worn, dirty even. You try not to think about how many people he's hurt for them to become this messed up. You try to focus back on what is happening in the moment, though reality feels hazy. As if there was ash on your eyelids, and a layer of dust covering everything. Fog in the air. Everywhere you turn, something is off: you look down and see stitches, you look left you see scars, left - bruises, further down blood and sweat, your neck hurts more from each turn, your eye twitches. Off.__

____

 

He stops smiling. Bad sign? Good sign? Who knows anymore.  
You feel a shiver down your spine, a pulsating headache, sweat on your back, and a pair of golden eyes staring into your own. He was cluthing the knife really tightly, and you expected him to strike you with it any second. He likes toying with you when you don't think he would. The last bits of your will to survive pushed you to train yourself to always expect it, no matter the time of the day.  
The time of day is what matters the least, actually.

 

Suddenly, his hand shoots up, and he presses the blade to his own cheek. Blood starts to flow almost immediately. His gaze meets yours once again, and without breaking awkwardly terrifying eye contact, he drops the knife with a loud clink echoing through the basement. You flinch.  
He wipes some of the fluid from his face with the back of his hand. What kind of sick dream was this reality parodying?

 

"Sorry, liebling, with that much excitement in the air, anything can happen!"  
Your excitement was questionable. Your shoulders tensed up whenever you heard his voice, even if it meant more pain, you couldn't help it. Excitement is a strong word. But something is definitely up with the air in this place. Feels like poison. Like mace. 

 

Feeling a warm tear escape your eye, and then another, and then another, you release some of the tension bulit up in your system. You feel like if you could, you would explode. Not in the spontaneous human combustion way, more so a human atomic bomb. Or like a bottle of soda, if you shake it enough, you can't pour anything out without an explosion. And all he seemed to do ever since you first saw him was shake you, metaphorically. Some fucking weirdos on this earth just love shaking people as hard as possible, just to see how they explode.  
If death was going to come, you prayed to whatever force rules the earth it was going to come soon.  
And now the grasp he had on your face was only tightening, and you were almost certain your jaw was going to bruise. One more mark. At least there's no mirror in here, you know you couldn't bear the look of your own body.

 

Your eyes drifted to the fresh wound on his unshaven face, which seemed small compared to any of the wounds you have. What went into him? He was unstable before, but was this a new layer of it? What the fuck? He noticed you staring at it.  
"What?" Closer.

 

"What?" Nothing. Fuck this. The blood on his finger, maybe his, maybe yours, mixes with the blood on your face. Then, it mixes with your tears, leaving light red smudges.  
Your eyes glisten with confusion. It's as if your brain is about to burst through your skull. Loading, calculating, counting. Gears turning.  
You feel something inside you snap as he presses his forehead to yours and touches your face once more, suprisingly gently, with those dirty, bloody fingers.

 

"I-", he struggled to find a word.  
"Ich-"  
Let's just say, maybe death isn't going to come right now. You're weirdly sure of it.  
Hair, blood, tears. Glow. Liebling.  
Shadows of pain.  
Let's just say, death isn't going to come right now.


End file.
